


Only the Fools Know

by Ten8cinator



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Gore, Curse Breaking, Curses, F/M, Immortality, Inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PIRATE CREW HERE WE GO, Tortugastuck, bet you thought you'd never see a fic with that tag huh, don't worry there's going to be more than just the crew but, honestly they never get mentioned in any aus that arent' about them ever, so there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-10-02 13:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10219223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ten8cinator/pseuds/Ten8cinator
Summary: Legends foretold of cursed Aztec gold aren't anything to sneer at, but they certainly do make quite a story. The infamous privateering Midnight Crew is about to learn the hard way why blood money is best left alone-- and that even eternal life comes with a price.





	1. Chance Encounters of the Shit-Your-Pants Kind

**Author's Note:**

> I bet half of you don't remember when Tortugastuck was relevant. Pepperidge Farm remembers, and so do I. I also remember that in most Homestuck AUs, there is little to no acknowledgement of the Midnight Crew. So I'm fixing that, and reviving a dead AU all in one go! Hope you enjoy, cause this is going to be a very long multi-chapter read.
> 
> Here is the link to the current Tortugastuck blog, as the original was taken down. I don't own this AU.  
> http://tortugastuck-blog.tumblr.com/

_It’s late._

A ragged sea breeze whips about the shutters of an old weathered window, caught in an endless cycle of banishing and welcoming the night with each to-and-fro swing. Four men sit close beside, long grown accustomed to the chill that clings tight to their bones and keeps them alert. Compared to every other patron in the bar, they’re arguably the most lucid; if anything, the several empty pints littering the table in front of them serve testament to their dedication rather than paint them reprehensibly. Not that anyone would have the nerve to say something; pirates are a tricky bunch, especially in groups.

Their leader, dispositioned to seat himself in the center of the group, leans stiffly against the splintering wood and sighs through his teeth. It’s much later than he’d anticipated. Much longer than he’d have liked to remain in port, at the most unsightly tavern he’s ever seen, watching the same faces file in, get shitfaced drunk, and lumber out. He’s sure his cohorts share the same sentiment, quietly stewing over their last drops of liquor and bemoaning lost time.

The barkeep occasionally shoots furtive looks at the quartet, though nothing can be gleaned from his expression. Possibly he’s accepted them as part of the furnishing to save him the trouble of kicking them out. He’s long stopped serving the brooding party regardless, moving onto the kinder, simpler folk that aren't sizing up his business with intent to rob it. Or burn it to the ground.

Or something equally horrible.

All prior exuberance or motivation has fled them, leaving the ragtag company of marauders feeling altogether more rancorous and menacing than usual. Stakeouts aren't usually their style, and to wait patiently for so long without incurring violence is making their aforementioned leader itch. He’s grateful, at least, that they’ve unanimously agreed not to speak to one another until this whole ordeal is settled. Even the most chatty of his crew, for once, is disarmingly silent, but the disquieting air that positively saturates the atmosphere around him is contagious. So much so that they’ve allowed him to steadily drum his fingers on the table to soothe it, without much complaint.

Deuce never could sit still for very long.

The man to his left seems to mirror this feeling, although with the gruff exterior of a person who could bench press half of the tavern’s occupants one could hardly guess he felt anything at all. But then, if one knew how to read Boxcars- and it’s not difficult- they’d know he was practically bursting to say, _“We should really go,”_ or, _“Boss, it ain’t worth it anymore.”_ He’s shot down with a glare and a hiss that settles low in the din of background conversation which, in any case, would’ve drowned out whatever thoughtful insight or advice he’d have to offer.

It’s bad enough they’ve been docked in Port Royal of all places for the better part of several hours, in fair jurisdiction of the law- and worse still, _bounty hunters_ \- but to leave without a scrap of what they’ve come for is unacceptable. Might as well kneel in shit and beg in the streets for what leaving’s worth.

Besides, he knows better than to interfere with his leader’s hunch. And as much as the crew’s rich history would like to counter the reliability of said hunches, Spades Slick’s plans never fail to deliver in the end.

Are they dangerous? Sure.

Usually involving illegal and impossible means? Undeniably so.

But if coming to fruition in strange and unexpected ways is the long and winding path to their goal, then they’d all best shut their goddamn traps and continue to sit tight.

Pendleton Ingham is the man they’re looking for, though he also goes by another equally ridiculous sounding alias. A lanky fellow of weak-willed make, he’s been known to frequent this hovel in search of liquid comfort every couple of days, curiously without the company of his associates. A godsend, considering it’d be harder to beat the piss out of him if those other two lightweights crashed the party.

Slick swirls the meager contents of his mug with a twisting, articulate motion, leering at the remaining patrons for the umpteenth time and somehow hoping his bad eye is covering up the truth. He’s got to show up at some point. He can’t have known they were waiting for him. Another man harboring a dangerous secret might have the sense to change up his schedule every so often but, this is _PI_ they’re dealing with. Self-preservation would only breed more anxiety.

But beanpole has yet to make a guest appearance, and with Slick’s right-hand man watching the door it’s impossible he could’ve escaped unnoticed.

Then Droog nudges his shoulder.

As if waiting for his cue behind the curtain of opportunity, Ingham walks in. He stands out as much as any private investigator would amidst the scummy residual scrapings of Port Royal’s underground, trying phenomenally hard not to look anyone in the face and shivering quite hard. Given that it’s not his first time buying a drink here- and _by god_ , what Slick would’ve given to see that play out- most don’t acknowledge him, though some still glower as he passes. It’s likely that he’s arrested a good deal of them.

Not wanting to carry on the midnight vigil a second more, Slick rises, as do the other three. It’s an action that does not go unacknowledged. With purpose in his stride and a look that parts the sea of seated men he leads his crew straight to the bar, where Ingham is just getting cordial with the tender. Something of a smile actually graces his features before Slick’s hand grips his shoulder, prompting him to turn around. All color melts from his pallid face, like milk pooling around a broken glass.

“Fancy meeting you here, Inspector.” He’s sapped the smile right from Ingham’s face and replaced it with his own tapered grin. “How’s about we take this outside?”

The lawman freezes, like a cornered rodent, seeming just as likely to flee before he realizes a little too late that his goose is overdone and starting to char. It isn’t just Slick, after all, and one wide-eyed quivering glance behind him makes it very plain what his new course of action will be. Swallowing hard, he nods slowly, but fervently, feeling the grip on his shoulder tighten as he’s escorted out the way he came, Droog, Boxcars and Deuce proceeding after in an uninterrupted line.

He’s almost certain he’ll end up murdered tonight.

They make it to about two blocks down the darkened cobblestone path and turn abruptly into an alleyway- a wasted effort, considering there seems to be no soldiers patrolling the streets, Ingham thinks bitterly- before he’s shoved roughly against the limestone wall.

Delicate baby skin bruises under Slick’s grip as the man fights to catch the breath ripped from his lungs upon impact. His eyes dart about for some comforting vision, though every face he sees is closing in. Maybe, just maybe if he screams loud enough he’ll--

“Don’t even fuckin’ try it.” There’s a knife now, emerged from the hidden pockets of Slick’s too-large coat.

“Yeah; it’d be a waste for you to have come with us all the way out here.” Deuce beams through the darkness. “Stay and chat awhile, huh?”

With no other option except to save his throat from a premature shave, he nods, allowing Slick a few extra inches of personal injury.

“Heard you locked up some friends of ours sailing for _Isla de Muerta_ recently. That true?”


	2. The Formalities of Broken Bones and Other Fun Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So college happened and with it, my plans of regular updates shattered. In other news, grass is green and the sky is blue. Here's a filler chapter!!

_“All of them, Pickle?!”_

  
Silence. And then, after a beat-

  
“...Y-Yes. All of them.”

  
The man’s response wavers thinly through the door. He couldn’t force himself to come inside-- too nervous, what with the tumultuous events of the past evening and the injuries he’d thus sustained. Turning the handle and walking the few remaining feet to Sleuth’s desk, of course, would aggravate his delicate broken wrist; he could trudge out of his stuffy little home to his stuffy little office and all the way to Sleuth’s door and _still,_ the most demanding physicality is a handle.

  
Raising his head to the unforgiving sky, Peter Staunton closes his eyes, and sighs.

  
“All of them,” he repeats with clipped finality, folding his hands upon the desk. “Oh, good. I was worried it’d only been one of his lackeys but, I guess that settles that little mystery.”

  
Sleuth doesn’t have to wonder about the look on Ingham’s wan little face, as the ever-present ogle bores holes through the tempered wood.

  
“Yes...well, they were...waiting for me, apparently,” Ingham continues, puzzlement evident in his tone. “For a very long while.”

  
Sleuth blinks. “...They knew where you’d be?”

  
“I suppose so.”

  
“You didn’t… You haven’t been covering your tracks?” Now he’s the one beside himself. How could Ingham be so willfully blind?

  
“If I’d have known, I’d have been more careful,” the man says indignantly, hiding a wince. Sleuth rises to his feet and crosses toward the threshold.

  
“And look where- _that_ got you!” He grunts, wrenching the door open. It startles PI back a few paces. Though the investigator’s about two heads taller, he couldn’t have looked more the antithesis of himself, and Sleuth easily towers over him.

  
“Because of your screw-up we’ve got an even _bigger_ situation on our hands, bigger than those guys we bagged the other night. They weren’t here a hot minute before the Midnight Crew busted them out-- on my night off, no less, and remind me to get Ace on the line once he gets his ass out of the infirmary- and now they’re _nowhere_ to be found!

  
“Six wanted men gone without a trace,” Sleuth stresses, pacing the short stretch of hallway between their offices. “That doesn’t just happen.”

  
Ingham, swallowing, looks on.

  
His face is visored as a hand rubs at his temples. “What were they looking for again?”

  
A pregnant pause.

  
_“...Inspector?”_

  
The man’s shoulders stiffen. “...Does it really matter, Peter? I-In the grand scheme of things- I mean, they’re still...escaped--”

  
With a single, deft movement Sleuth turns on his heel and closes the gap between them, saving Ingham the effort of his graceless backwards waltz. The look on his face is one that his partner’s see only once before. He’d killed a man, then.

  
“ _One: Don’t_ call me that during business hours. _Two:_ It is _absolutely_ crucial that we know _what_ they were doing, and _why.”_ He points an accusatory finger towards the inspector’s nose.

  
“Maybe you’re content with thinking six escaped convicts are up and having tea with their ‘godsent’ sonuvabitch cohorts- the ones we’ve been tracking _high and low for our entire careers_ if you recall- but I’m not so easy to please. It is _precisely_ what they are up to that will determine what our next course of action is, and if it weren’t for the fact that Jack chose a calling card in the form of _broken bones rather a body this time, our entire operation might be up shit creek without a paddle.”_

  
“And I might be dead.” Ingham shoves the hand away, suddenly quite firm. “D-Don’t remind me. All I meant was, it didn’t seem to matter because we won’t be doing anything about it anytime soon. As you said, Ace is still in the infirmary, so we’re a man short-- and I’m certain the paperwork on this incident will be record breaking.”

  
Both men glare with varying levels of offense at the other until, in a softer tone, he adds, “They mentioned Isla de Muerta… I figured they wouldn’t survive the trip, and it wasn’t worth noting.”

  
Sleuth’s frown twitches. “All the way out there..?” With no denial from Ingham’s face he backs up a pace, incredulous. “They went through all that trouble just to sail out to that death trap?”

  
“Th-That’s what I mean. If they went that way...we wouldn’t have to worry about them for a while.”

  
Sleuth eases back against the wall, contemplating the situation in a new light.

  
“...You don’t suppose it’s all for that silly legend, do you?”

  
“I don’t suppose anything, except that I fancy a drink,” Ingham replies crossly, his voice growing fainter as he starts back down the hall. “I d-don’t think much about men that want to eviscerate me.”

  
Once he’s fully out of earshot, Sleuth rises to his feet. Surely he can get more information by the time his cohorts are right as rain, and then they’ll be back in business. Hell, that paperwork might even include a few eyewitness reports about the crime…

  
At the very thought of the mountain that awaits him, he sighs through his teeth.

  
He might just fancy a drink too.


End file.
